


i’m not the same as before (you know this)

by presentdoiez



Category: The Boyz (Korea Band)
Genre: Angst, Changmin-centric - Freeform, Complicated Relationships, Holidays, Implied/Referenced History, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29309262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presentdoiez/pseuds/presentdoiez
Summary: Changmin feels almost sacrilegious like this, like he’s trespassing in a place only for those with hopes to chase, for those with things to offer up before midnight ushers in Christmas day. He sees white hairs threading through the bun of the ahjumma in front of him, watches as the candlelight glints off his mother’s wedding ring. Time stands still for the congregation, but Changmin’s eyes still dance.And then he sees Chanhee.
Relationships: Choi Chanhee | New/Ji Changmin | Q
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	i’m not the same as before (you know this)

**Author's Note:**

> alternatively, changmin stares at chanhee for 1k words in a very homosexual manner (title from nct127's back 2 u)
> 
> this is a very self-indulgent drabble born from my background as church kid (and from 3am thoughts about chanhee being in the church choir). enjoy!

Changmin winces as melted wax drips onto his finger.

He cautiously opens an eye to right the flimsy green paper keeping the candle upright, trying not to burn his cramped and sweaty hands. Heads are bowed around him, lips moving in soundless prayer as midnight nears, the cross on the wall done up in oddly fitting Christmas lights. Changmin feels almost sacrilegious like this, like he’s trespassing in a place only for those with hopes to chase, for those with things to offer up before midnight ushers in Christmas day. He sees white hairs threading through the bun of the elderly woman in front of him, watches as the candlelight glints off his mother’s wedding ring. Time stands still for the congregation, but Changmin’s eyes still dance.

And then he sees Chanhee.

He sees him, in the half-off yellow polo that he’d worn with stubborn pride, despite the unfortunate sizing. He watches the strands of his hair move softly under the ceiling mounted fans, shades of pink and orange almost aflame. Even closed, Chanhee’s eyes seem to dance with mischief and sincerity, almost moving under hooded lids. It’s as though he’s chasing something, even as he whispers and wrinkles his forehead to the ticking of the wall clock. Changmin can almost imagine him peeking up at him, silently chastising him for looking around during the prayer. They are eyes that he has met again and again: that first Sunday School lesson, at Bible Camp under the scrutiny of church elders, during their final flag ceremony as high schoolers, under the light of fireworks during Lunar New Year. So rarely has he broken Chanhee’s gaze first; even now, he finds himself unable to look away.

Chanhee is pursing his lips now, eyes scrunched tighter than before. It is one thing to see Chanhee’s lips in motion, to hear his voice complain, argue, shriek, or even comfort. Changmin has listened to him soar with the church choir, has watched as he spoke during their graduation ceremony, has played with the hangnail on his pinky as Chanhee cried over the phone from 3,000 miles away. But it is something entirely different to see them still like this, unmoving and almost waiting for something to change with the chime of midnight. When Chanhee is silent, it is in moments of liminality, in the spaces between constancy and change. He’d been silent when they’d gotten into different universities, speechless when Changmin had found his father sleeping on the couch at 3AM. His lips had been set into a firm, hard line during the Lunar Festival, completely still despite the movement around them. Now, they are pursed. Waiting.

Changmin turns, tears his eyes away from Chanhee and forces them shut. In the darkness, he hears the old organ begin to play the closing hymn, listens to the collective exhales of the devoted around him. He is blind, impervious, untouchable. He casts his thoughts skyward, forward, towards the cross hanging on the wall. He thinks of returning to university in two weeks, of the buildings and cars of the city far, far away from their little town. He thinks of anywhere but here, of coasts and fields smelling of salt and bitterness. He thinks of anything but Chanhee, haughty, annoying Chanhee, with his sweet, watermelon scented cologne and barely visible freckles. Chanhee, who refuses to slip away into the darkness he forces himself to see, Chanhee, who is right here. Right next to him.

When he opens his eyes again, Chanhee is looking at him.

He can’t return his gaze, can’t trace the curve of his brow like he used to. Changmin focuses on the dimples on his chin, watching his lips open and close, dancing around something unsaid. In the background, the organ stills once more, and they are left alone in the quiet. This time, it is candlelight, not fireworks, that glint off the strands of Chanhee’s hair. Gone are the bells and shouts of the past Lunar New Year, replaced by a silence that is only for them. Changmin almost drowns, flounders in the way that Chanhee stays completely still; eyes trained on him, lips pressed into a firm and thin line. Fireworks and celebratory music will no longer cover for words unsaid, will no longer fill the space that Changmin was too afraid to enter. He wonders if this is how Chanhee felt that night, smothered by noise and sincerity and trust, above all else. It is Changmin’s turn.

He steels himself, meeting Chanhee’s gaze. When was the last time that he’d done so? In Chanhee’s old Toyota, on the way home from the bus station just days ago? During their video call on Changmin’s birthday, conversation broken up by lost connections? 

No, it had been next to the dragon boat that night, Chanhee’s eyes bright with something more special than the reflections of street lamps, his lips set into a firm, thin line. A sign of change. Noise above and around them, silence in between. The dragon boat had groaned over Chanhee’s voice as he spoke, something almost cracking at that very moment. Even then, even now, Changmin cannot tear his eyes away, cannot bring himself to break Chanhee’s gaze first. 

And when Chanhee finally looks away, Changmin realizes that he might not ever be able to.

Midnight had come and gone, the congregation already filing out in peaceful silence. Changmin’s mother blows out his candle for him, and the wax covered paper around it finally overflows, spilling pink paraffin all over his shoes. Changmin drops his candle into the pew, palm sweaty, cramped, and unbelievably light. Beside him, Chanhee extinguishes his own and leaves, the half-melted candle still clutched in his hand.

The wax is still warm, almost lifelike, against Changmin’s shoe as he follows Chanhee out the double doors.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!  
> find me on [twt](https://twitter.com/presentdoiez)


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